‘We should ought to cut down on them Indians,’ he cried. ‘They’re in gunshot range. Cut down on ‘em, Clay. Finish it.’
The horses were streaming down into the creek, kicking up a great wash of water. The spray flew. The dust rose as they swept past Clay. Then they were all across and coming dripping from the creek. The Indians jumped their horses forward, yipping as they circled the loose animals and herded them west. Slowly they drifted to a halt. The riders came swooping back across the prairie. Two men awaited them - Clegg and an Indian mounted on a bay pony. The riders came to a ragged halt and stared in the direction of the white men. The crew were standing staring at them.
‘Git back into cover,’ Clay bawled. ‘It ain’t over yet.’
Jody yelled: ‘They have the horses. What more do they want?’
‘Go on back,’ Clay said.
They drifted away, taking cover on the creek shore, among the willows. Still Clay couldn’t see the girl.
He looked back at the Indians and saw the man on the bay horse slip to the ground.
Here it came. His lips and throat were dry. All for a girl he scarcely knew. But what else could he do? That was his crew there and he had to get them out alive. This way there was a chance the Indians wouldn’t fight.
The man was peeling off his hunting shirt. Clay could see the sunlight glistening on the powerful copper body. Clegg was talking to him, maybe trying to talk him out of it, maybe encouraging him.
Then the Indian was walking toward him.
He walked easily, toes in, belly tight and small, the shoulders wide and powerful. He held his head up. Clay couldn’t take his eyes from him. He saw that in his hand he held a club.
I don’t have a weapon, Clay thought. Nothing but my knife.
It was a good knife, heavy and sharp, a Bowie given him by his father. He had never used it except for chores like cutting meat or cutting the throat of an animal in the hunt.
He unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall to the ground.
A flash of movement to the left caught his eye and he turned his head.
It was the girl. She was running for the creek and she was screaming: ‘No... no.’
‘Stop her,’ Clay roared, but she reached the water before anybody could stop her. George ran out from cover and waded in, but she was well ahead of him and going fast.
Clay leapt into the water and started forcing his way through it. Quickly the water was up to his waist. Running Dog had stopped and was watching the girl.
She was still screaming, wading through the shallows on the far side. She came out of the water, her skirts heavy with the wet. Clay forced his pace, came out of the water and started running as soon as he was up on the bank. If there was nothing else he could do, he could run.
She was half way to the Indian when he dove for her and brought her down. She hit the dirt hard and he heard the wind go out of her. He hauled her violently to her feet and shouted at her−
‘Go on back, hear? You go back and you stay there.’
She panted breathlessly.
‘No, ‘ she said. ‘You can’t do it. He’ll kill you.’
Clay’s chest heaved from the running.
‘He ain’t goin’ to kill nobody,’ he said.
The girl tried to start past him. He caught her by the arm and whirled her around. He cuffed her with his right hand and sent her on her way. Her eyes were wild as she turned on him. Suddenly, George was there, holding her by her arms. The Indians were starting to come forward. Clegg was shouting at them, but they ignored him. George started running her back to the camp.
Clay heard a shrill cry. He turned and saw Running Dog not a dozen yards from him. He covered the ground with speed. Clay had only time to see the wildness of his eyes, the brilliant slashes of color that was his paint.
There was no time for fear now, only action. Every cell of his body cried out for him to survive. There was no time even to put his hand behind him and draw the heavy knife. He managed barely to sidestep that first charge and to duck under the swinging club.
They both whirled like fighting animals, teeth bared, muscles tensed.
The Indian growled out something in his own language, sucking the breath into his massive chest. He stamped his left foot once, feinted slightly to the left and then swung. Clay jumped back from it, stumbled, landed on his back and rolled frantically as the Indian pounced on him. He felt the heavy club graze his left shoulder. He rolled again and came up on his feet. The Indian stayed where he was, weighing him carefully, suddenly curbing the rage that had sent him forward in the charge. He had learned one thing in those brief seconds. His adversary could move fast.
Clay reached back for the knife and drew it.
The Indian eyed it. How well could the white man use it?
He came in cautiously now, crouching, watching the white-man’s eyes, for in the eyes lay the forewarning of attack. He feinted left, right and then swung the club with great speed at Clay’s legs. The move was totally unexpected. Clay tried to jump clear, but the hard wooden weapon caught his left shin and in that instant, he thought the bone had been cracked. He backed up hastily, stumbling on the painful leg. He knew that the blow had slowed him down. He knew the only thing for him to do was to get in close. Could he do it without having his brains knocked out of his skull?
The Indian jumped in with the speed of a pouncing cougar, the point of the club driving hard at Clay, aimed for his belly. It was a shrewd tactic that allowed for greater speed than the swing. But the Indian had underestimated Clay’s reaction time. He moved back slightly and to one side, grappled the club in his left hand and hauled violently on it. The Indian came with it slightly, but what mattered was that for a brief moment he was out of control. He started to strain back against Clay’s pull, but he was too late. Clay lifted his right boot and caught him on the knee.
For a second, the Indian’s face went shapeless.
His left leg seemed to cave under him. Clay heaved on the club. The Indian brought over his left hand to grasp the haft. Clay slashed at him with the Bowie. Had the blow landed, it would have about severed the Indian’s head from his body. As it was, Running Dog jerked abruptly backward with such force that Clay was almost hauled off his feet.
He released his hold on the club. The Indian stumbled and nearly went down. As his left knee touched the ground, Clay jumped in and brought up his knee into the painted face. The Indian arched backward and hit the dirt.
Clay stamped down on his right arm with his booted foot.
The Indian grunted with pain, caught Clay’s ankle with his left hand and jerked him from his feet. When Clay got to his feet, he was winded and he had a lot of dust in his mouth. Bemused, he looked around.
The Indian had jumped to his feet and was standing crouched down a few yards away. Clay thought he looked a mighty mussed up and startled chief of dog-soldiers. But he still looked deadly. Clay also saw that in his hand he now held a knife.
They circled.
Clay changed hands a few times and made a false attack with the left. The Indian took it seriously and showed Clay the way he moved with a knife. Now Clay didn’t like knives any better than the next man, but somehow he was a mite less scared of that knife than he was of the club. This wasn’t the time to find out why, but he was and that was that.
The Indian came in with a stamping attack, thrusting quickly twice. Clay rode back on both thrusts, counter attacked with a quick short slash and had the satisfaction to see the blood spurt bright on the Indian’s forearm.
Instead of making Running Dog more cautious, this seemed to make him more intent on finishing the fight quickly. He jumped in repeatedly now, the sweat starting through his paint, his eyes fierce, his teeth bared. Clay managed barely to keep him clear with broad slashes of the long Bowie.
Then the Indian was inexplicably inside his guard, close up against him, thrusting the knife at him.
Clay felt a sharp bright burn in his side and thought: I’m hit.
There was no m
ore reaction than that. It seemed to clear his mind wonderfully. He knew he must finish it quickly now before he bled to death. He now had the same idea as the Indian.
The Indian came in again, maybe to try once more the same movement, but Clay went back before him. The Indian persisted. Suddenly, Clay started to feel tired. One moment, he seemed in full strength, the next he knew the weight of the knife in his right hand.
Running Dog was in close again. Clay stumbled backward, his foot caught something on the ground and he tripped.
He went over hard on his back.
The Indian was on him like a pouncing lion.
Clay managed to get a knee between the Indian and himself. The Indian’s knife flashed in the sunlight. Clay kicked out hard and threw the man off him. That didn’t save him. Running Dog came at him on all fours. Clay found that he had dropped his knife.
His right hand fumbled frantically, searching.
Nothing.
He scrambled away from the Indian, suddenly desperate and terrified. His knee caught something hard. He looked down.
The Indian’s club.
Running Dog came at him on two legs and a hand, face eager. Clay rolled and came to his knees with the club in his hands. The Indian reared to his feet, lithe and quick, dancing in. Clay jabbed at him with the club and be batted it away from him easily with his left hand. He got inside the swing of the club and lunged with the knife. The only way Clay could escape was by going backward. Once his back hit the ground, he swung his legs over his head and turned a full somersault. The Indian came after him and as Clay gained his feet, they were face to face and toe to toe, too close for the club to be used.
The Indian made a short stabbing thrust. Clay managed to catch his forearm against that of the other. They braced against each other, strength against strength, their left and right arms shaking with the titanic effort, their grimacing faces within inches of each other. Clay tried to heave the other away from him, but there was not enough strength in him. He gave suddenly before the push of the other, the Indian lurched and Clay brought the head of the club up in his face. For an instant, the Indian was staggered. There was blood on his mouth where the club had caught him. Clay stepped back and swung the club. Running Dog ducked under it and lunged in. In mid-stride, Clay caught him with a back-hander. The heavy war-club caught the Indian in the side and staggered him. He seemed to stumble before he went down to one knee.
Clay swung the club with all his remaining strength.
In that moment, the Indian looked up at him and in that moment when their eyes met, the club-head took him on the side of the head. He pitched sideways with a muttered cry, lay for a moment, kicking with his feet and grasping at the dirt with his hands. He seemed to be making a frantic effort to gain his feet. Suddenly, his body went limp. His flesh hugged the dust.
Clay stayed where he was, legs wide, club in hand. The sweat poured from him and he shook a little. He couldn’t believe it was over.
He heard a shout and raised his head.
Jody was on the far side of the creek, jumping up and down and shouting.
Clay turned his head and looked at the Indians. They sat their head-tossing ponies, watching him. He wondered what they were going to do about it. He reckoned he’d know pretty soon.
He bawled to them−’Come an’ tote him outa here.’
He started walking back toward the creek.
The crew had come out of cover and were shouting triumphant insults at the Indians. Clay yelled to them to hold their noise. There was still a chance of a general fight. There were still a lot of Indians back there.
He reached the creek and realized that he had left his knife on the ground back there. He turned and went back. Clegg was down on his knees beside Running Dog and there were several Indians a short way off. Clay picked up his knife, saw Running Dog’s on the ground and picked that up too.
Clegg said: ‘My Indians ain’t feelin’ too friendly. You sure made a mess of this one. Stay close and ‘light outa here soon’s you can.’
Clay nodded and walked away. One of the Indians shouted something in his own tongue. Clay ignored him and went ahead. He reached the creek and walked into the water. On the other side, he dropped the weapons on the ground and bathed his face in the water. Then he emptied his boots and the girl was beside him.
‘Did you kill him?’ she said.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘I hope not. He wasn’t a bad man. ‘
He looked toward the Indians. There were four of them carrying him, spread-eagled. He still looked limp. He reckoned that was one mighty defeated Indian. The thought that it might have been him was sobering.
Then they were all around him, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand. The creek water had washed the blood from his arm. Now it was dripping red again and the girl exclaimed at the sight of it. Somebody went to fetch a shirt-tail. They bound his arm and he said: ‘Saddle up and let’s move. Those boys see us here too long and they’re goin’ to get ideas.’
They obeyed him. There was no saddle for the girl, so they rigged her up one of a blanket and a surcingle made of rawhide. They moved away from the creek, going south-east. They were all laughing and talking, the tension gone, when Pepe Mora looked back and cried out: ‘Trouble.’
They came, sweeping over the surface of the prairie like colorful birds, their sharp yipping cries reaching the ears of the white men.
Clay reined around and watched them. He saw that Clegg was not among them.
Men reached for their rifles. A couple got down from the saddle so they could shoot better.
‘Hold your fire,’ Clay said.
He looked at Jody. The boy’s finger was itching for the trigger.
‘That means you too, Jody,’ Clay said. ‘Especially you.’
The boy looked fit to be tied.
On the Indians swept, riding magnificently, moving with the action of their ponies, running flat out. The warriors brandished their weapons and yelled their defiance at the whites.
They came within a hundred yards.
‘Take aim,’ Clay called.
Every man there raised his weapon.
They had no sooner done so than the charge broke. Every brave there scattered out to right and left, turning back on themselves, galloping a few hundred yards, clustering together and halting in a flutter of feathers and manes. They yelled their hatred.
Manning Oaks said: ‘You should’a cut down on ‘em.’
‘They’re just feelin’ a mite mad,’ Clay said. ‘They ain’t goin’ to hurt nobody.’
Manning looked at him with scorn.
They rode on.
The Indians didn’t move. They were still there watching the retreating whites. They were still there when Clay and his crew went over a ridge and lost them to view.
Somehow, Clay was glad.
The girl turned and looked at him. He smiled at her and she smiled back. He thought she understood.
Chapter Five
They rode down through the Indian Nations in the fall of the year. And the girl went with them. At first, it was difficult to know what the rest of the crew thought of, her. Clay could see that they were puzzled. They didn’t know what to make of her. She was beautiful. That was obvious enough. Once, she had been a respectable girl and the crew possessed the Texan’s respectful awe for a respectable woman. But she was respectable no longer. She had been with the Indians. They would admit that that had been through no fault of her own. Just the same, she had been with them. And they all knew what Indians did to white women. They did what white-men did to Indian women when they got their hands on them. It was like a law of nature.
Clay was greatly concerned with her. There were times when he denied the fact to himself, but mostly he was fully aware of it.
She attached herself to him. It wasn’t that she followed him around or anything like that. She was an independent and intelligent woman. She wouldn’t play beaten dog for any man. But the attachment was there
all the same. It was as though it were an attachment of the mind. That was a pretty highfaluting thing for Clay to conjure up, but it was just about the whole truth of the matter.
Sometimes, he would catch her watching him. Not secretly or possessively, but with a wide-eyed curiosity that never failed to put him off balance. She didn’t even talk to him much. For conversation, there was always George. Jody showed a great liking for her, but she made it evident that she was most at home in young George’s company. She spoke with him easily, even joked with him and teased him.
The other members of the crew, uncertain of her and her status, treated her warily. Even the Mora brothers were slightly embarrassed in close proximity to her. Manning Oaks was almost open in his doubt of her. Certainly, he never spoke to her and seemed to studiedly ignore her presence. Clay sometimes found him looking at her with scarcely veiled dislike. Manning, of course, had a thing about Indians. He made this plainer as they went on until Clay started to suspect that maybe he had some Indian in him. Sometimes it went that way with some men.
The Meredith boys treated her with politeness, but with nothing more than that. The whole business worried Clay, for he could not help feeling that, in a way, she was his responsibility. There were times when he would have gladly rid himself of it and looked forward to the time when they would reach a settlement and he could hand her over to some good wife.
Once, when they were camped near the crossing of the Red River, they were on the bank of a small stream and the evening meal had been eaten. It was a clear fine night with the weather clear and Clay had walked off a way from the others to be alone for a while. That was his custom and the fact of his wanting to be alone was known to the jest of the crew. He had walked along the bank of the stream and come to a scattering of trees. He was out of sight of the camp and reached some rocks by the water. Here he sat, watching the surface of the gently moving stream. He was roused from his thoughts by the cracking of a twig. He turned and there was Sarah walking through the trees toward him. He knew that she had come looking for him.
He didn’t greet her or speak a word. It seemed completely natural that she should come quietly and sit down beside him. The indescribable something between them allowed it.
Hard Texas Trail Page 5
